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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224888">Somnul Nesfârșit al Trandafirului Sălbatic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/reysroses/pseuds/reysroses'>reysroses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dracula - Bram Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Original Characters - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:28:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,112</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224888</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/reysroses/pseuds/reysroses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>almost three decades after the plague of terror in london, the beast awakens again</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Somnul Nesfârșit al Trandafirului Sălbatic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i wrote this for a school project and figured “hey, might as well post it.” i got an a+ on this, so it must be decent? </p><p>the project was to write the first chapter of a dracula sequel, so this was mine.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was raining. She stood alone, shielded from the droplets under a black umbrella, fingers rosy from the cold. Her breath came out in puffs, tinted yellow from the street lamp. Her stomach growled. She licked her lips, tongue swiping over cracked skin, eyes darting across the dim street. Her head turned towards an alleyway, the sound of footsteps growing louder and louder. The umbrella was closed, knuckles cracked, the click of heels against the slick concrete. White hands, sharp nails, the muffled gasp, then a shriek. Red juices foaming out of two small cuts in the juncture between the shoulder and the neck. Blood ran down her mouth and neck. Her hunger, subsided. <br/>Maria Westerna walked home alone. She ignored the catcalls of drunk old men wandering the dimly lit streets. She quietly crept up the stone stairs to her residual housing, staying silent as to not wake her housemates so late. She shed her coat, kicked her shoes by the door, and swung into the bathroom. Her reflection had not yet fully faded, as it was just fuzzy, like a blurred charcoal sketch. Golden brown hair lightly brushed her shoulders. Brown eyes stared back at her from the reflection. Her nail beds were crusted with blood, despite how hard she had tried to clean them earlier. Ria grumbled softly, and turned the hot water on, unwrapping a bar of soap. The water burned her skin, yet she scrubbed harder. The faint scent of iron mixed with the lemony scent of the soap, the mirror fogging her reflection even more.    <br/>It had been three months since the symptoms had started. The sun burning her skin easily on the odd days. The sharp canines in her mouth. The intense urge whenever one of the girls knicked themselves on a shaving razor and a droplet of blood slinked down their legs, to lick up and savor. The need to feast. So she had plotted a routine to hunt. Sneak out of the boarding house, find an unexpecting victim, feast enough to calm her hunger but not to kill, then return home. Over and over and over again. <br/>    Slowly, as to not awaken the other girls from sleep, she tread lightly up the stairs, avoiding the creaky step. Peeking her head through the doorway, she noted Elizabeth’s slumbering form across the room, the sounds of her snores echoing softly. Maria slowly crawled into bed, burrowing her shaking limbs underneath the mountain of blankets, finally drifting off to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>    The year was 1923. Elizabeth was seated at the desk in the parlor, eyes scanning over a newly printed story in the paper. Something was running rampant in London, attacking various civilians. The door slammed behind her, causing the girl to tear her gaze away from the type. Maria had furiously stalked into the building, and threw herself onto the cushioned chair, earning her looks from their boardmates. <br/>    “You look like you’ve run through the battlefield,” Elizabeth offered, eyeing her friend’s form. Ria sat up ramrod straight, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, fiddling with the sleeves of her smock.<br/>“I met a man today. He was handsome and mysterious, yet familiar. He said he knew me, but where from, I don’t know. But the name he gave sparked something within my memories, Eliza.”<br/>Elizabeth turned her body towards the girl, carefully taking in her shuddering form. Brushing a stray curl out of her eyes, she moved her chair closer.<br/>“Perhaps you have met him before, at a party of some sort. But do tell me of him, if you will?”<br/>Maria shook her head, eyes focusing on the grandfather clock, the hands moving at a snail’s pace. She seemed to pale extremely, her skin as white as paper. As if all the color had been drained out of her skin.<br/>Ria suddenly stood up, and shot an apologetic look towards her friend as she climbed up the stairs to the second floor. Elizabeth heard their door closing and the lock clicking shut. She sighed, and reverted her attention back to the news clipping. Maria had seemed to be out of sorts recently, barely talking. It was almost as if she had died, and someone else had taken her place. Maybe she was just overreacting, Elizabeth wondered.</p><p>He was standing in the spot they had agreed on, a corner near an unpopular commercial street in London’s East End, a place Ria regularly frequented on these nights. Dressed in a dark coat, nervously flicking a cigarette between his fingers, before dropping it to the ground and putting it out with his shoe. He was a handsome young man, with clear skin and curly brown hair, and eyes like emeralds. His parents were both relatively attractive, which gave Quincey his good looks.<br/>His eyes flickered upwards towards the figure walking in his direction, the glint of a silver locket around her slender neck. She was a plain yet lovely looking girl. Her name was one he had heard of from his parents a handful of times, and that was how he found her. <br/>“Maria Rosalyn Westenra, at your service, sir,” she stuck out her hand for him to shake, which he accepted quickly. Her voice was soft and pleasurable, yet there was a hint of intelligence lurking underneath her words.<br/>“Quincey Harker, miss. Good to see you once again, and thank you for meeting me, Miss Westenra,” Quincey shot back, willing his hand not to be sweaty. <br/>Maria stood quietly for a few moments, before directing her gaze once again towards the man in front of her. <br/>“If I may ask, why do you want to meet me so late? And how did you know me if we have never formally meet?”<br/>Quincey stared intently at the girl, internally struggling to find the right words to portray his ultimatum. <br/>“Miss Westenra, I believe it is that you seem to have a curious condition as of late? If you may allow it, I believe I can help you.”<br/>Maria stared dumbfounded at Quincey Harker. How could this mysterious stranger know about her secret, the one she has been so careful to keep out of others’ hands. Her look must have portrayed her inner monologue, because Mr. Harker proceed to give a hearty laugh, eyebrows cocked.<br/>“This isn’t the first time something like that has happened, miss. Something as peculiar as your predicament struck London almost 3 decades ago. And it was of your name, Miss Westenra.”<br/>Maria stayed silent, but her face was one of confusion and interest. Quincey continued his proposal.<br/>    “I want to help fix you, and prevent London from going through another unholy feast again.”</p>
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